


Plague

by mysticanni (vodkaandlime)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Plague, Plague Doctor - Freeform, Religion, recluse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29591931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkaandlime/pseuds/mysticanni
Summary: It makes sense to appoint the least popular person in town to the job with the shortest life expectancy.That's how House becomes the Plague Doctor.He finds himself intrigued by the recluse who ventures out of the forest to help by burying the dead.
Relationships: Robert Chase/Greg House
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Plague

Giving the job with the low life expectancy to the least popular person in town was only human nature, after all. 

And he was a cripple anyway. His life expectancy was already low. 

Those were the justifications the townsfolk made for bestowing the position of Plague Doctor on House.

Perhaps this role would help him atone for his sins, people said. Perhaps it would teach him some humility, others said. 

Although those who thought House could be taught humility were looked on as fools. 

“He is the rudest, most arrogant, man I have ever had the misfortune to meet,” lamented the widow Burton. “He told my George that he was too fat, can you imagine?” 

She did not mention the other things House had said to her – that George ought to get out in his fields more to get some exercise – or that if he could bear it he could fuck her to lose a few pounds. He had added that he would not blame George if he did not want to fuck her. She had never been so insulted in her life. 

George had dropped dead in the parlour a week later. The widow Burton felt as if House had cursed her husband.

There were those who thought House’s negative attitude had brought the plague to their town. 

House had been heard to mutter that whatever had caused it God had nothing to do with it. A truly shocking attitude – if he didn’t fear God was he in league with the Devil himself? 

There were others who were regarded with suspicion too. 

The wise woman, with her herbal medicines, was thought by some to be a witch. 

The apothecary who had come from a far off land and had skin of a darker hue than any of the villagers was also suspected of being a practitioner of magical arts. 

The recluse who lived in the forest also attracted suspicion. He was a changeling, people said - too fair of face to be human. 

The fact that none of those suspected of witchcraft or magic or having Faerie blood became sick – despite visiting afflicted households – aroused further suspicion. 

The recluse had actually come out of the forest and helped to bury the dead. And yet he lived.

000

The plague doctor refused to wear the elaborate mask his predecessor had sworn by, although he had to admit the sweet smelling herbs in the beak of it would sometimes have been a blessing. “Since you might be the one to finally kill me, the least you can do is look me in the eye,” he would snap at those he visited.

It frustrated him that he could not do anything for most of them. The wise woman, Miss Cameron, made them soothing poultices and brought broth and herbal infusions. They would not help, of course, but they offered some comfort.

The apothecary stayed away for the most part, knowing he could not help and wary of the potential consequences of getting too close. 

The recluse prayed over the dead bodies piled high in the cart he trundled through the streets – his voice hoarse from shouting that people should bring out their dead. 

House limped alongside him. “What’s your story?” he asked. 

The recluse gave him a wary glance. “You’re the plague doctor, aren’t you?” he said.

House studied him. “You have a broken heart,” he decided. “The fair maiden found a wealthier man to keep her in pretty dresses.”

The recluse shook his head. “There was no fair maiden.”

There must have been a fair maiden. House is never wrong. “You have the classic symptoms of a broken heart,” he informs the recluse.

“Everyone with a broken heart buries the dead?” the recluse mocks him.

“Your reclusiveness,” House tells him, “which I envy, by the way, screams broken heart. Your willingness to do the tasks no one else wants to undertake shouts that you believe if you are good enough – worthy enough – then your beloved may see sense. Either that or it means you have a death wish. Given the plague it may well mean you have a death-wish.”

The recluse seems to consider this. “You think I’m suicidal.” He sounds as if he is turning the idea over in his head. “Maybe I was,” he murmurs to himself, “But I don’t think I am now,” he concludes. 

000

The recluse is an enigma. House hates a puzzle he can’t solve. “What do you know about the recluse?” he asks the apothecary.

“He’s an idiot,” the apothecary opines. 

This is almost certainly true but does not help House. He knows that the recluse gathers herbs for Miss Cameron the wise woman’s potions so he asks her what she knows. 

He discovers that she is also trying to discover the presumably tragic story of the recluse. “He came to live in the forest three years since,” she informs House. “He built his own little cabin and he lives off what he can grow or find or what he can barter services for. He rarely came into the town before he started to bury the dead when the Plague arrived.”

She can tell House nothing he does not already know.

000

The recluse surprises House by arriving at his cottage carrying a wooden stick. House thinks for a moment the recluse is going to beat him to death which would be a surprise as he had not considered the recluse dangerous.

Then he realises that the stick has been carved – the recluse has apparently made him a walking-stick. “Yours is the wrong height,” the recluse tells him as he thrusts the new walking-stick towards him.

The recluse is correct and the new stick is far superior to the old one. Still House regards him with suspicion. “What do you want in return?”

“Nothing,” the recluse assures him and turns to go. 

“What do you think will happen in your favour following your act of kindness?” House calls after him. The recluse turns his head and bestows a sad smile on House but he does not reply. 

000

The stick is carved with leaves and berries. It is a thing of beauty and also functional. It is sturdier than his previous stick and he is pleased to think it could double as a good weapon if he needed it to. It pleases House greatly. 

People stop dying in such numbers and the recluse returns to the forest. House discovers the town council are reluctant to pay him for his services as Plague Doctor. They had clearly hoped he would not survive for long enough to claim the promised bonus.

House takes a break from the most enjoyable shouting matches with the town representatives and limps into the forest. It is a warm sunny day. Birds sing sweetly in the trees. The brook babbles near the path.

House limps away from the path, glad of his stick on this less even ground. Why he is seeking out the recluse he could not say, it is simple curiosity perhaps. 

“Good day, Plague Doctor,” a voice says behind him. 

House turns and finds the recluse has apparently crept up silently. “You’re either a killer or an escapee from a religious order,” House tells him crossly, annoyed that he has been caught unawares. 

The recluse’s eyes widen. He pushes a lock of his blond hair away from his face. “Come and have some refreshments,” he invites House.

The little log cabin he has built is not far away. The recluse has excellent mead which they drink. He offers House sweet bread too. They sit outside the cabin on a little wooden bench the recluse has constructed. “The second one,” the recluse tells House, “I had a crisis of faith. I left a monastery.”

House nods, satisfied that he has finally figured out the recluse. He offers the recluse his hand. “Gregory House,” he introduces himself. 

“Robert Chase,” the recluse replies, shaking his hand. He has a firm grip. His hands are calloused – he is evidently no stranger to hard work. 

House keeps hold of his hand, tracing the lines as if he can read Chase’s future – or perhaps his past. “Do you think God spared you?” he asks. 

Chase shrugs. “Maybe,” he replies. “Do you think he spared you?”

House shakes his head. “I think for some reason some people just don’t catch the plague,” he tells Chase. “I don’t believe in God.”

Chase merely nods. House is still holding his hand. Chase leans in close to him and his lips brush against House’s lips. “Perhaps we were both spared because we need each other,” he suggests. 

House returns the kiss. “I’m here because I want you,” he tells Chase, “not because of God.”

Chase shrugs again. “God, Fate, whatever,” he murmurs, “the important thing is that you’re here.”


End file.
